


The Nothing Song

by fairylurkanon



Category: Gymnastics RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: F/F, cape cod sounds wonderful right about now, in december drinking horchata.., the fandom is dead but this writer is alive and well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 04:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2930870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairylurkanon/pseuds/fairylurkanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't really know what you want until it's right in front of your face, impatiently waiting for you to make the next move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nothing Song

**Author's Note:**

> Over a year ago I wrote this for fun and then eventually for myself. I reread it recently and decided it deserved to be on here. Here's to good ol' times. Happy New Year. 
> 
> PS. Listen to the song in the link. I also recommend "Horchata" by Vampire Weekend.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No libel is intended.

[[play & repeat](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0QM1QdRpFxU)]

//

You sigh alone, but not for long.

For a moment, you’re taken by her presence. There’s something about her that you can’t quite pinpoint—because the words catch in your mouth like a net full of monarch butterflies. It’s normal, right? For your insides to melt? To feel your heart break the sound barrier? Of course.

The adventure’s just beginning, though.

“Hello,” she says. She is foreign and you can’t quite make out where she’s from.

“I like your voice,” you blurt. She smiles, hand over her mouth like she’s got a secret and she found it on your face. Your head is still in a daze. The chill blurs your eyes and you blink heavily, eyes still wet from earlier.

“Help?”

“Uh, no. Why?”

“You are on dirty ground,” she laughs, and it’s true. Your little body’s caked in wet mud and for some reason you don’t know how you got there. All you remember is butterflies.

“You are okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

She shrugs and kneels down beside you. You take in her whole being in that moment and you have to scoot away a little just to  _breathe_ , lest you forget to do that in front of her, too _._

“Up,” she mutters, taking your naked hands into her mitten-covered ones. The chill suddenly seeps into your body like a stinging serum. You come up with blocks for legs and a limp. Static crawls under your skin and you huddle over her for balance, nearly taking the two of you out. Luckily, she’s got you tight around your waist and you’re so close that it’s probably enough for her to feel your heart thump. But that pain in your head rolls right around and you clench your eyes closed.

“No more saltos,” she says.

“Okay.”

\

You sigh alone, but not for long.

And it’s because of nights like these where even the most normal person has to do the most ridiculous thing ever.

And tonight, you are that person.

“Let me see,” Aliya spins you around, but it makes your vision worst.

“Oh my God, the world is falling.” But really, it’s just you that’s falling.

You can hear Aliya giggle so hard you think she should consider joining the circus.

“Ugh, I think I’m drunk.”

“You promise.”

“I know, I know,” you put a finger to her lips. “Patience.”

But she’s anything but a patient girl right now. She drags you over to the mirror so you can take a look at yourself. You almost want to vomit at the reflection.

“Mmh, sexy.”

She means the outfit that you wore for your samba dance on Dancing with the Stars. And sure, it looks pretty nice. Unruly chains cascading in gold—just above your knees and right below your butt—and the overhead lamp strikes lightning shards across your body. It is so nice that you want to laugh at the fact that they actually let you take it home. You want to laugh at how Mark called you a big klepto for getting away with it, too. You want to laugh at how much fun it was dancing the night away every week on TV. You want to laugh at fourth place blues because  _damn_ , what a curse. You want to laugh at a lot of things. But instead, you laugh at the person she considers ‘sexy’.

“Oh man, look at that blob!”

You feel Aliya stiffen next to you. You really can’t believe what you just said because those are private thoughts and private thoughts stay in a box inside your head—sheltered, locked away, stuffed in the attic somewhere. But you drank and suddenly booze became the key and the box is so wide open moths could come and eat away all that you’ve sewn shut.

“What you are saying?” But she knows what you mean. She  _has_ to know. You’ve given it away, the box is still open. It is too late.

“Come on, Aliya. You don’t see?” Oh no. Don’t burden her.

“No,” she says. “What do I see?”

You glare at her, the round edges of your vision blurring her face, but it looks so upside-down. You cannot stop yourself. “Aliya.”

She repeats, “What do I see?”

“ _Look at me!_ ”

You feel hot but not the good kind of hot. There’s a blaring noise but there is silence, except your own breathing. It falters, syncing with the beating of your heart. Why is it so loud? You think you’re crying so you turn away. There is still some dignity left, even in a drunk like you.

But then she comes behind you and moves you to the mirror.

“Who is she?”

She shifts over to your other shoulder in a fragile kind of way.

“I think I know.”

Aliya pulls your hair back when you sniffle, and she takes a curl into her finger and pushes it behind your ear. She brings her arms around you.

“It is a dancer. She had too much to drink and now she is sad. But she is sad for so many things. She does not think she is beautiful when she sees mirror because mirror say one thing. But mirror is wrong sometimes.”

You can feel yourself being rocked back and forth, but it is her and she is there holding you so close. “Mirror say little and lie. Mirror do not feel and do not see. Why? Because when I see her, I think she is most beautiful dancer.”

She turns to you.

“You promise, remember?”

So you did.

“Is okay because we don’t have to do on table,” she laughs. You still feel crummy like moldy bread over the counter and it’s just a stale feeling. But she holds you close and you see sleepy eyes and your own reflection there and it looks so interesting. You think you could dive into them if you came closer, but she can’t know you want to. What you do instead is guide her onto your hand and arm. She curls her hand over yours as you cup hers gently.

“We don’t have to use the raunchy music either, right?”

She shakes her head, “No.”

“Good.”

Aliya smiles. “You remember?”

“Yeah. It was one of my favorite dances.”

\

You sigh alone, but not for long.

Because when you’re sad, sad music helps—if only for a while. And it doesn’t matter whether it’s jazz or country (yuck) because music is music and it’s all the same to you at this point.

But then some song pops up on the radio and this is probably the fourth time you’re hearing a song that you can’t even understand, but that’s okay because…

Oh, wait.

No.  _No._

Ugh, why?

This song is too happy. Too hopeful. Too, too much.

But your finger is not moving and you swear there are just some things about your body that you’ll never understand. Like, for starters, how you could just never point your toes. Or how sometimes your body will just refuse to cooperate with you. You sure as hell remembered physiology back in high school so of course you know it’s actually your brain that’s the enemy.

Alright, brain, okay. Try again. Skip the track.

Nope, I like this song too much, you think. Or I just really, really hate it.

What the hell is it called, anyway? “Untitled #4”? Oh, okay. Thanks, Pandora. You’re just so helpful.

But you listen to it and it’s so long and it reminds you of something that you can’t really reach inside your mind. You don’t really know what but you think it’s something lost and you’re reaching and stretching but you can’t remember and you want it so much and  _why does it make you cry?_

Does it even exist? Does it even matter?

You feel a vibration against your leg, and you look down at your phone. A notification; it washes you away with a thousand tears.

_Miss you)))_ , it reads.

\

You sigh alone, but not for long.

Because when it’s late in the day she’s right there with you. You’ve got gum in your mouth and so does she and she’s looking at you and you are too because you know exactly what she’s about to do. Of course, you figure. Of course she’s gonna pull that stunt with you. She has the apple-flavored one and you have grape. She  _loves_ grape. And you don’t think you have a big ego or anything but you know she’s crazy for you. Pretty fucking crazy if you had to be specific. It’s not like it took years for you to figure it out. Or a thousand people to confirm your suspicions. Or even just your own gut feeling. But you knew it for sure when her best friend Tatiana spat it in your face that morning.

“She’s in love with you, you stupid American.”

“Oh, come on. She just tolerates me.”

To which she nearly had to go pinch the skin off your shoulder—you really didn’t think she had it in her after all those years competing. Reality check in the form of a Russian blonde cursing profanities at you.

“She is no virgin, you know. You wait too long, she will go and find someone else to play with.”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“Oh no? Okay, you can say that to American boys. Maybe even girls. I know she still talk to Pavel.”

You really don’t think you had your jaw drop that low since that time Aliya showed you  _exactly where_  she got that tattoo of hers on her body. You won’t stand it any longer.

Okay, you think, alright. So maybe I’ve just been waiting too long—maybe you made poor Aliya wait too long, too. It’s time to act. Time to get your girl.

Luckily, it didn’t take you too long to find her.

She was sitting on that old spot at the beach. Ever since you showed her Cape Cod she’s been begging to come back and stay longer and longer. It didn’t help that she had to drag her friends along the way. It was always easier for her to bring a little bit of home back here. At first, you figured it was just a homesickness kind of thing. Maybe she just couldn’t deal with it very well. But one day, on that very spot you and she both shared, you saw her cry over a picture of her family.

Then you realized you could never offer that kind of home for her. One with the same people like her, the same language, the same  _attachment_. Cape Cod was your home, and not hers.

Maybe that’s why you never could go through with all those lovey-dovey feelings and just  _say it_ to her. Maybe that’s why you just pushed away. And you think, well it’s all for the best—never mind me, Aliya, go on with your life and I’ll try and pretend that these last few years were just me being friendly and not really vying for affections that you could never be able to reciprocate. What a stupid selfish person I am.

But you overanalyze and then it always comes crashing down on you. All these little butterflies like they’re swimming through the sea-salt air. Rays of light touching a part of you so closed off to people—it makes you cry just thinking about it. And some things don’t exist in the world and you just can’t help but think this is about as real as the person before you now.

Real as wishes upon things that shoot across the sky in the night. Real as dandelions dancing across your crinkling faces when she says, no I don’t mind you. I don’t mind you at all. And real as spy machines and songs about nothing and everything that you have ever wanted.

God. You really  _are_  stupid.

“Hello,” she greets you. She’s got a scrapbook in her lap—you think you see some pictures of her old team back in London. You smile at memories of your own from that day—and it just really brings back some of the best things that happened in your life. And you hope that this moment will be another one tucked away and then relived for days to come.

Overoptimistic Raisman, you think. Just shut up and tell her and get on with it.

“I like you,” you blurt. Aliya looks at you like she’s about ready to do the vault of her life.

“Well okay, that’s not really true.” Save yourself, Raisman. “You see, I don’t like you. I  _really_ like you. And I think I didn’t say it before because I didn’t know if you felt the same and I was scared and we competed with each other before so I thought that—maybe?—it turned you off because Tatiana’s right I’m a stupid American and I’m not really that interesting but you are and _IamjustreallyinlovewithyouI’msosorryIunderstandifyoudon’tfeelthesamepleasedon’thateme._ ”

Well fuck.

Alright, you think. Just catch your breath. Deep, that’s it. In, and then out. In, out. Okay, now run. Just run away and do it fast.

But your feet do nothing; they like the spot you are on. Or they’re just scared shitless like you and you are just really thinking something’s gonna fly smack into your face—maybe a certain scrapbook off the lap of one crazily gorgeous girl at the beach. If I go out, better go out with the side of the book that touched near that nice little spot where her tattoo is. You smile insanely at the thought.

But she asks, “You bring gum?” And you just blink at her.

“Um… yeah?”

“Grape?”

“Uh huh.”

“Sit down, then.” So you do. She puts aside the book. She pulls out her own packet of gum—the one she stole from you earlier, actually—and pops a stick in her mouth. She chews it fast. She motions for you to do the same. And for some reason, you remember when your dad used to say, if your friend jumped off a cliff would you? And you just laugh out loud—like,  _really_ loud. And hard.

Because if that friend were Aliya, you really think you would. You would do anything for this girl.

But Aliya waits for no one, especially you.

So now you’re sitting there thinking about nothing and everything at the same time. You have to wonder, why the hell would she switch gums when she knows grape isn’t my fav? She looks pretty fucking eager about this—oh my God, she’s looking at you so damn intensely—and you’re just there chewing this gross piece of gum and  _why does she like this again_?

You backpedal a thousand feet and then a sliver of rationale crawls into your head and it says, oh. _Ooooohh._

No, you can’t really wonder—you can’t even think. She’s right there—apple in her mouth. Her eyes dark, even in the sun. She pulls close—too fast—hand over your side, the other snaking over your thigh.

_Oh my God_.

She pauses. Her breath catches on your lips.

“Alexandra?”

 “Yeah?”

“I like you, too.” And then apple and grape meet and you never thought they would taste so good together. Butterflies just explode inside your body—you can hear them pulverize the sky like firecrackers. Electricity winds through your core—and she is melting, but she turns you into a puddle. She rakes her fingers into your curls and her other hand pushes into you. Your body has a life of its own—your brain does its work well. You graze her teeth, chafing against her tongue as you grasp at her sides. She tugs at you and she just swirls into your mouth and  _seizes you_. Licking—biting—kissing  _and_   _kissing_.

And then she pulls back from the heated haze. You don’t even have to open your eyes. No, you don’t even have to open them because she’s just staring at you. But time is not transfixed—not like seeing beauty, not like feeling butterflies. And you can just  _feel_  her unfurl a grin and go red like windswept saltos in the winter.

God. That is literally probably the best kiss you’ve ever had. So much so you can't help but gape at her. You let out a shaky, "Wow." 

Aliya is better than you are at these kinds of things. She lets loose a giggle and hugs you close to her heart, as well as yours.

\

You sigh alone, but not for long.

Because you never really sigh for too long. It’s only a matter of waiting.

//

**Author's Note:**

> Update 9-15-16: Thanks to all of you for the kudos! I remember watching gymnastics back in 2012/2013 and was incredibly amazed at the skill and grace these girls carried with them while competing. So much has changed since then! I stopped watching gymnastics live a while back but I never would have thought Aly and Aliya would share the same podium at the Rio Olympics. It was incredibly exciting to hear these two girls making yet another milestone, especially Aly who finally got her deserved medal in the AA. Congratulations to both competitors as well as all the gymnasts at Rio!
> 
> While I'm sure many in the community may not appreciate RPF for its content, my Raistafina fics were always written for fun. I never intend to encourage anything beyond what was merely fiction to begin with. On a side note, I always like to look back at these and remember how much it helped me and my writing process. It was also quite the therapy for me back then, as my mind was always muddled with certain regrets and calamities. What a great-albeit-strange-and-insane run we had! 
> 
> Since then, I haven't been writing as of late. Perhaps the fandom in me has been fulfilled a while back ago. But I can't say I'm finished writing altogether. I always have my creative moments once in a while. And who knows? I will probably finish certain fics that I never truly got around to finishing one day. As always, hope you guys are doing well, here's to another great quad!


End file.
